


the price of dreams and hauntings

by saltandlimes



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Imperial Big Bang, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Not as sad as the tags sound, Organized Crime, Padme Amidala - Freeform, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post World War 1, Prohibition, Red Scare, anakin skywalker - Freeform, obi wan kenobi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 04:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11843604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: The year is 1923. It's been almost half a decade since the end of World War I, and Galen Erso is an overworked detective assigned to the hotbed of Boston's organized crime, the North End. When local working girls start to go missing, he andThe Boston Post'scrime editor, Orson Krennic, must put aside their problems to solve the mystery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not exist without the help and creativity of my wonderful artist [mrsjadecurtiss](http://mrsjadecurtiss.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> [Additional art for the fic is [here on tumblr](http://mrsjadecurtiss.tumblr.com/post/164371901874/illustrations-i-did-for-saltandlimes-amazing) \- check it out and enjoy mrsjadecurtiss's incredible work!]

**_Thursday, May 10, 1923_**  
**_Cafe Girls Killed_**

_At 4:15 in the morning yesterday, Mr. Alan Rossi discovered the body of a young woman near the wharves just off North Street. Mr. Rossi had been letting down the awning over his own shop when he smelled what he described as “the foulest stench I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.” When he followed his nose around the corner, the body was discovered in the corner of the back alley between a bakery and a tobacconist. While Mr. Rossi described the initial appearance as a “right mess,” this writer has found that police identified the girl as Miss Mary O’Conner, 17, an Irish working in a cafe in the neighborhood._

_The police refuse to comment on the recent disappearances of four total cafe girls from the North End, yet the appearance of another body near the wharves cannot be ignored. While four girls have been reported missing, only two bodies have so far appeared. Yet all four in question disappeared from the general vicinity of North Street, and all had worked at various cafes in the area for at least the past year._

_The Watch and Ward Society, speaking to this reporter yesterday afternoon, remarked that such cafes are known dens of iniquity, and that it is likely that all four girls were engaged in the fouler trades. It is possible, Watch and Ward suggested, that the girls ran off on their own and met with ends that were perhaps stickier than those they would have encountered in the county jail, but no less unsurprising._

_Yet even if all four girls were providing illicit wares, does this discount the evidence that there is a killer on the loose in our fair city? As it stands, only the North End has been affected. Yet what is to say that it will remain that way? One must simply hope that the case will catch the police force’s attention before anything more dire occurs._

_-O. Krennic, editorial crime staff_

***

Galen folds his paper up slowly. 

“Another cup, cap?” The waitress’s voice jerks him from the paper, and he sits up a little straighter. His hand lands on his hat when he puts it down to steady himself, and it crumples a little. Galen curses under his breath.

“Not a captain, doll. Just a regular ‘tec.” 

She smiles at him, refilling his cup of joe. This far towards the the North End, she’s got dark hair and pretty dark eyes. Galen still isn’t sure what her name is, even though he’s been coming in here every few days for the past three weeks. 

“Bet you’ll make cap sometime soon though. You’re a real ducky.” 

Galen laughs. He downs half of the cup in one go, then stands, handing her a stack of change. 

“When I do, I’ll come in and treat you, alright?”

Her eyes shine a little, and Galen groans a little inwardly. He hadn’t meant to flirt with the poor girl. He’s not even remotely interested, and it’s not fair to her. He slaps his hat back on his head as he makes his way out of the diner, not looking back. 

It’s raining outside, and Galen can feel the humidity thick against his coat. He sighs. Whatever evidence was left at the crime scene the reporter found is probably all washed away by now. No cigarette butts to find, no muddy remains of footprints leading to or from the crime scene. It probably wouldn’t have been any good anyway. The more as he pushes the precinct to use more of the latest technology coming out of Europe, the more they resist. 

Galen sometimes wonders if it’s because he’s the one suggesting it. He’s one of the only people left on the force who served before the mass strike a few years ago, only escaping being fired because he was on loan to New York at the time, following up on a mafia connection there. He’s heard the whispers, people wondering if he’s a spy for some union organizer out there, just waiting for the right time to strike, to encourage another shut down of the department. 

It’s almost funny.

Galen couldn’t care less. He’s not paid enough. So what? Lots of people aren’t, and he’s got more important work on his mind than trying to fix the nonsense that comes down from the commissioner. Coolidge mucked things up, for sure, but he’s got no way of making that right where he’s standing. All he can do is investigate what the fuck is going on uptown and hope he doesn’t get bumped off by Messina’s boys in the process. 

He turns down North Street and looks around, grimacing. It’s early enough that most of the shops aren’t open, but he can see someone taking down an awning a few blocks down. Probably the Mr. Rossi mentioned in the article. Galen knows he’s always one of the first out in the morning. He doesn’t _think_ that Rossi has any connection to Messina’s family, but it never hurts to check.

Mud splashes under his feet as he picks his way around a few old bottles and wrappers lying in the street. Galen shakes his head. He can’t believe he’s out here, crack of dawn, not even on the clock yet, following up a lead from that yellowdog journalist again. Orson Krennic is the bane of the police department’s existence, at least as they tell it over at the precinct. He’s always catching leads a little before anyone else notices them, making a fool of the police and the commissioner in the process. Worse, he doesn’t seem to have any interest in reporting on supposed connections to the Bolsheviks. 

Galen smiles at that thought. At least, as far as he’s concerned, that’s a mark in Krennic’s favor. He’s as patriotic as any other fella who fought in the Great War, but there’s nothing he can do from the seedy end of Boston that’ll make a difference against the Reds. He’s more worried about trying to catch out Messina’s bunch before they can set up enough speakeasies around Boston that the entire city’ll be violating prohibition in all but name. 

Rossi is still outside when Galen gets up to the edge of his store front. Galen nods at him, and Rossi stops what he’s doing, standing a little straighter. 

“What can I do for you, cap?” he asks. 

“It’s Detective Erso,” Galen tells him. “I noticed you talked to a reporter named Orson Krennic yesterday.”

Rossi shifts from side to side, his white apron stretching over his wide belly and his round shoulders trembling a little as he looks around. 

“So what if I did. Nothing to pinch me for, is it?”

“I’m not going to arrest you. I just want a little information,” Galen sighs again. Someday, someday he’s not going to walk around with everyone cringing out of his way. But it’s not going to happen as long as he wears a uniform up here. And he’s not really sure he wants to walk around the North End without the protection of the force behind him. He’s put one or two of Messina’s men behind bars in the past year, and he doesn’t think the boss is happy about that. 

“So what you want?” Rossi’s voice breaks through his reverie. 

“First off, did you tell that reporter everything you know, everything you saw?” 

Rossi nods. He chews on the cigar that’s clamped between his thick lips, clearing thinking it over. 

“Think so. Chatty one, that fella. Think he could have gotten everything out of me, even if I hadn’t wanted to spill.” 

That’s interesting. Galen knows Krennic from years ago, before the war, when they were both bumbling charity students at St. Augustine's. They’d been stationed different places, and he’d lost touch, or perhaps had thrown away any chance he had of talking to Krennic. He’d heard that Krennic had gotten a good job during the war, something to do with strategic planning. Galen had been slogging it out in a dirty trench, bombs exploding about him and bullets whizzing overhead every time the Germans decided to get friendly. He shivers, shaking his head a little. Now is not the time to think about that. 

“So, you’re telling me that if I went to find the reporter, I’d be able to get as much from him as from you?” Galen really doesn’t want to do things this way, but if he interviews Rossi for too long, Messina’s boys will know he’s onto something, and start taking an interest. Krennic is a safer bet. 

“Reckon so, and I’ve got to get back to my shop,” Rossi glances around as well, and Galen takes that as his cue to speed things up.

“You got a card for the chap?”

Rossi hands it over without protest. It’s thick paper, covered with beautiful looping script. _O. Krennic, The Boston Post. Crime and Police Editorial Staff_ , it reads. Galen runs his fingers over the line of ink, thinking about how Krennic had looked before the war. 

“Got an address?” he asks. 

“It’s on the back,” Rossi tells him. “Don’t think it’s the Post’s office though. Think it’s some place that reporter uses, private-like.” 

Galen nods again. That sounds like Krennic. He thanks Rossi quickly, nodding at the man, then sets off down North Street. If he hurries, he can make it to Krennic’s little office before too many more shops open up and Messina’s boys notice him sniffing around.

***

The door is old, the wood a bit battered and the stone around the frame worn. Galen steps up to it slowly, glancing around from side to side. He traces his fingers across the pealing lettering on the door. “O. Krennic,” it reads, with nothing else below it. He stamps his feet in the mud at the entrance, then takes a deep breath. 

At his knock, Galen can hear something inside make a wooden clattering noise, as though a chair has fallen over. He shifts a little, waiting, and then the door is wrenched open. 

“I don’t have any appointments… Galen?” Krennic pulls open the door, hair in disarray, collar loosened and suspenders almost falling off. 

“Mr. Krennic. I’m here to talk to you about the case you reported on in today’s issue of the Post.” Galen says, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders squared. 

“It is you, Galen!” Krennic’s voice is delighted. “Come in! I had no idea you were working for those scoundrels over at that excuse for a police department.”

Galen steps inside, pulling off his hat. He drips a little on the floor, and Krennic snatches the hat away, hanging it on the one empty peg just inside the door. Then he beckons Galen in further. The room is almost bare, only a desk in one corner, a heavy black typewriter lurking on one side of it, and papers stacked on the other end. Across the wall behind the desk are tacked some sketches, a few handwritten notes, Krennic’s own articles, all in a jigsaw pattern that Galen can make no sense of. 

He unbuttons his jacket, shrugging it off. Krennic takes that from him as well, hanging it on the peg with his hat, then gestures for Galen to follow him. He leads Galen through the door against the far wall. They emerge into a much cozier parlor, one with a large armchair at one side, a couch at the other. Galen stands just inside the doorway as Krennic goes to a small sideboard. 

“Do you still like… oh.” He turns, holding a tumbler, then smiles. “Water, I take it.”

Galen almost laughs. Trust Krennic to just catch himself before offering whiskey to a policeman. He nods. 

“Water is fine.”

“Sit down, Galen! I haven’t seen you in… well… before the war.” Krennic’s eyes cloud a little at that, lips pursing and lines forming at the corners of his eyes. Now that Galen looks more closely, Krennic’s face is more than a little worn, thinner than he remembers. The curves of his cheekbones stand out more sharply than Galen thinks is normal, and he doesn’t fill out his shirt the way he should. 

This is enough to force Galen the rest of the way into the room, to get him to settle himself into the soft cushions of the couch. He notices a moth has been at the upholstery, eaten away at the edges, fraying the cloth until it is almost threadbare in spots. Krennic drops into the chair across from him, crossing his legs and leaning forward.

“So, tell me all about it,” Krennic says. 

“This isn’t a social call,” Galen manages. Sitting down, he can see exactly how Krennic has shrunk in on himself. He looks like the men Galen remembers from a few years back, just after they got off the boats back from Europe. For a moment, Galen wants to go to him, to put his hand on Krennic’s shoulder as he sits in the armchair, lean over him, and ask him what has happened to put him here, so far away from a fancy government job and all the advancement Galen would have thought would come after one of the work Krennic did during the war. But he holds back. Orson Krennic is not his responsibility. More importantly, Krennic doesn’t want his help, doesn’t want his advice. 

“So what is it?” Krennic’s voice is a little harder, but his eyes still gleam at Galen. 

“I read your article,” Galen tells him. 

“So do you believe me? No one else in your damn force seems to.” Now the bitterness is sharp in the curves of Orson’s vowels. 

“I think so. I’ve been working on the prostitution rings that Messina’s boys are setting up, and I noticed that they’re having trouble getting new girls. If the cafes think someone is bumping off working girls, then they’re bound to have trouble getting gullible young things to come up and get caught in their webs.”

Krennic nods. He bites his lip for a second, cocking his head to the side in that way Galen remembers from when they were in school together. He shifts on his chair, uncrossing his legs, and Galen can see that the seams of his trousers are worn a little. He grips the edge of the couch to stop himself from getting up and going to Krennic. 

“And you think that maybe this is the missing link?” Krennic asks. 

“Maybe. I want to know what that shopkeeper, Rossi, told you.” 

Krennic laughs at this, a little coughing thing, too sharp. He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it quickly. While Galen watches, he takes a long drag, the end lighting up in the dimness of the oil lamps. There’s no electricity in here. 

“Oh. For a moment I really thought you’d wanted to talk _to me_ ,” he pauses. “Well then, Galen, I’ll help you.”

Galen sits forward on the couch, but Krennic waves the cigarette vaguely at him. 

“I’ll help you, but only on one condition.”

“Go on, Mr. Krennic,” Galen nods. 

“You take me along. On all your investigations. I get to see all of it first hand, and then I get an exclusive for the Post about it after you catch whoever it is,” Krennic’s voice is steel now, all the warmth gone from it. 

Galen takes a moment to think it over. It can’t be worse than the stupid trainee the precinct foisted on him last month. Krennic’s always been smart - too smart for his own good. He’ll manage to stay out of trouble. The bigger problem is having him near Galen the entire time. He doesn’t think… he knows he’s not going to be able to keep the distance between them. Already, he’s aching, heart beating too fast when he looks at Krennic’s face. His palms are starting to sweat with the effort of holding back, of keeping himself away from the thing he’s resisted for all these years. 

But there is nothing he can do about it. He needs Krennic. He doesn’t think he can do this without someone one his side, can’t fight the entire Boston police force again. He is not strong enough for that, not without someone at his back, someone who has the power to make their mistakes public, to call the world’s attention to what the force does behind closed doors. 

“Alright,” he nods. “Is that all?”

Orson shakes his head. 

“What else?” Galen asks. 

“You have to call me by my Christian name, Galen. We have too much between us for this false formality.”

“I thought it might make you more comfortable, me being only a lovely detective and all that.”

Orson laughs again, and this time it is true, bubbling up and spilling from his mouth to roll over Galen like a flood of mirth. 

“Look around you, Galen. Who do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. You’re a major column editor at the Post. That’s something,” Galen rolls his shoulders, trying not to let them collapse inward. 

“Oh so glorious, isn’t it?” Orson smiles gently. “It isn’t all it’s made out to be, you know.”

“I think I’m beginning to realize,” Galen says softly.

“So…”

“Alright,” Galen agrees again, “Orson.”

He can see, even from across the room, the way Orson shivers at the words, sitting a little straighter in his chair, arching his back just enough that he shows himself off to Galen. The name hangs in the air between them, somehow more of an invitation than Galen intended. 

“That’s it,” Orson whispers. 

Galen’s cheeks heat, his entire face burning with the tone of Orson’s voice. It has too much memory in it, darkened rooms and late mornings, Orson’s hands around his face, running through his hair and freeing it from its pomade. It feels of lazy hours in a tiny apartment, sheets tangled at the bottom of the bed and the smell of old cigarettes sharp in the air. It feels of home. 

He shakes himself. 

“Rossi?” he asks. 

“Right to business, I see.” 

“There’s someone out there killing birds, and you want me to spend time talking to you?”

“I know, I know,” Orson waves his cigarette dismissively. “Rossi. What do you want to know?”

“You think he’s telling the truth? He just found that girl there?”

Orson chews it over, stubbing out the fag on the crowded saucer next to his armchair. He crosses his legs the other way, perching his interlaced fingers on his knee. 

“I think so. He knew her job, obvious before anyone even mentioned it out loud, but everyone up there knows what the cafe girls do. And who they are, for that matter,” Orson shakes his head. “She was a mess, Galen. I didn’t write about it in the paper - not fit for public consumption. But he really did a number on her.”

“Bulls take it badly?”

“Them? Those cops took one look at her and went green. I don’t know who you’re hiring for the force now, but no way some of those greenies were old enough to have served. They haven’t seen shit.”

“And have you?” Galen snaps out before he can stop himself. 

Orson’s eyes flare, and he’s on his feet before Galen even realizes he’s standing up. He stalks across the room, planting himself in front of Galen, his arms coming to frame Galen and rest on the back of the couch. He leans over, and Galen can feel the heat of his breath as Orson glares down at him. 

“Don’t you dare ask that, Galen Erso. I’ve seen things you couldn’t dream of, there in your little trenches. Don’t you dare.” 

Galen takes a deep breath. He did not expect this. He shifts a little, letting his eyes drop from Orson’s face, shifting his feet. 

“Orson…” He starts, “I’m sorry.”

The flame leaves Orson’s eyes slowly, and he almost collapses onto the couch next to Galen. His breathing is quick, little pants that echo in the silent room. They sit there silently, the quiet stretching out between them. Orson’s knuckles are white where he grips his thighs. His fingers dig into the soft flesh there, and Galen can imagine the bruises that will bloom when Orson finally lets himself go. He wants to take Orson’s hands in his, let Orson hold tight to him instead of to himself, but he can’t. That is a road that he cannot travel anymore. 

Finally, Orson’s breathing calms. His hands relax, and he looks over at Galen. 

“I am too,” he whispers. 

“Don’t,” Galen shakes his head. “I spoke out of my place.”

“You didn’t know what happened to me,” Orson tells him. 

Galen almost says that he still doesn’t, but he bites his tongue. They have only been like this for an hour. He can’t ask Orson to explain that to him, not yet. Not ever, maybe. Orson shakes his head, as though freeing himself from the last vestiges of whatever took hold of him. 

“Anyway, she was real beat up,” he says. 

For a moment Galen isn’t sure what he means. Then he realizes that Orson’s gone back to the case, to the bird in the alley, and to the reason Galen’s here. He bites his tongue, the pain filtering out all the things he wants to say to chase away the ghosts behind Orson’s eyes. 

“Did it look like she’d been robbed?”

Orson purses his lips. He cocks his head to one side, taking a deep breath before replying. 

“I don’t think so,” he finally says, “Her clothes were a bit of a mess, but none of the pockets were turned out or anything. It looked more like someone had gone off on her, just lost it.”

“Any kind of technique to the beating?”

“Now that you ask, yes. It looked like some of that stuff they taught us at the beginning of the war. Not a lot of legwork - she only had bruises from her waist up, but her face was real bashed in. And her fingers were red, like she’d scratched him.” 

Galen thinks about that for a few moments. It’s not surprising, really. How many people didn’t fight in the war, didn’t suffer through the bombs falling and the sky exploding around them in hellfire? It would almost have to be a vet. But it’s an uncomfortable thought, twisting his stomach, making the gorge rise in his throat. 

“You got anyone who seemed a little suspicious? Anyone you’d want to finger for it?” He can’t believe he’s asking a two-bit, yellowdog reporter about this. But this isn’t any reporter, it’s Orson. And Orson’s always been quicker than anyone Galen knows. 

“I’d like to talk to that guy from Watch and Ward again.”

“Watch and Ward? The do-gooders? You really think one of them might be doing something like this?”

“They’re not some charity organization, you know? They’ve been busting up stuff in the North End for years. Sooner or later, one of them is bound to think something a little more aggressive is warranted.”

Galen nods. He’s almost ended up on the wrong side of Watch and Ward more than once himself, ducking out a back way when they come storming into some shady cafe. They’d love to catch him, he knows, the queer cop in the arms of some small-time boy working the dark corners of a cafe. He’s never quite been caught, though. 

“And you think this guy is the one?”

“Dunno. But he’s work talking to.” 

Orson pulls a battered notebook out of one pocket, flipping through it. The rustle of papers is loud in the still air. Galen watches him, eyes raking through the disheveled strands of Orson’s hair. There is grey threading its way through each of the curls now, little gleams that just barely catch the light. 

“Here’s his name,” Orson says, stopping on a page about halfway through the book. “Anakin Skywalker.”

***

Galen sits against the wall, perched on his narrow bed. His room is a mess of papers, a stack of files on his desk spilling out onto his chair and then down to the floor. His one pen teeters precariously on the edge of the files, a blot of ink beneath the nib where it leaked. 

He sighs. He pushes himself off the bed, landing with a soft thump on the bare wooden floor. It needs to be swept, dust gathering in the corners and crawling across the boards. Mrs. Grady has refused to come in until Galen gathers up the files. The sketches scare her, she says. Galen shakes his head. 

The snick of the clasps on his garters releasing is loud in the room. He sighs as his hose slide down to pool around his ankles. Galen’s back aches a little as he bends farther over to pull the garters off. He tosses them in a pile with the hose at the end of his bed. He should probably fold them, but right now, the only thing he wants is to be free of them. The rest of his clothes are already in their place, his uniform draped carefully over hangars and his hat on a peg. Now he slides down his boxer shorts gratefully, then tugs off his undershirt. 

The air is cold against his naked skin, and Galen tips back his head to breathe it in. He needs to bathe soon, but tonight all he can think of is getting into his bed, pulling the covers tight about himself, and trying not to remember Orson’s smile as he left. 

He goes to the small chest against the wall, and pulls out his pajamas. When he buttons up the soft fabric to his collar, it wraps around his neck. The sudden warmth is shocking, and he gasps a little. He wraps his arms around himself, the floor bleeding cold into his feet just as his body warms from the cloth covering it. 

Galen sits back down on the bed, pulling the spread up to cover his legs. It pools about his hips, and Galen leans his head back to rest on the wall behind him. The metal bars of the headboard bite into his back. 

He’s still not sure about the lead Orson thinks exists. They’re going to see this Anakin Skywalker tomorrow, of course, but Galen is fairly certain nothing will come out of it. Watch and Ward are a bunch of self-righteous bluenoses, but they aren’t the kind to beat up young women. They’d rather see the girls rot away in workhouses or prisons, killing themselves for a few crusts of bread. At least that fits their sense of moral entitlement. 

Galen flicks open the silver cigarette case on the tiny table next to his bed. It was a gift from Father Sloane when he graduated. He wonders if Orson still has a matching one. He didn’t notice if the one from today was that old memento, the leftover remnant from a childhood he still hasn’t left behind. 

The flare of the match is bright in the dimness of his room, sulfurous. The end of the fag catches, and Galen takes a deep breath. He lets smoke out in a slow stream, remembering how Orson has sucked greedily at the end of his earlier. That was not how expected Orson to be. 

Arrogant, maybe. When they were children, Orson was always quick to make friends, quick to earn the respect of their peers, even if he and Galen were the only two charity students St. Augustine's school accepted. He was always fast to assume that respect was his due, that he was somehow owed it. Galen had hung back, only coming over when Orson beckoned to him, only joining when Orson welcomed him.

He’d never quite figured out what drew Orson to him. It hadn’t mattered after a while. It had become unalterable fact, Orson Krennic and Galen Erso were a pair, were always together. 

But after the fight, after that war that was to end all wars, Galen had expected something different. He’d thought of how he’d last seen Orson, standing so proud in his civies, looking down at Galen as Galen chose to fight in the trenches with the Foreign Legion rather than help the army design weapons. Galen had tried to explain that he would never forgive himself if he didn’t risk as much as the rest of the boys out there. Orson had screamed then, yelled that Galen wasn’t like the rest of them, that there was something in Galen’s mind worth more than any cannon fodder lurking in the Old World mud. 

And that’s who Galen thought he was meeting. But there are ghosts behind Orson’s eyes, haunting stronger even than those that lurk in his own. They had gathered there even after Orson had calmed down, filling the air with their whispers. 

Galen isn’t sure he wants to know where they come from. Something has stripped away Orson’s old bravado, leaving bits of swagger in its wake, but stealing some of the light of his spirit. Galen would not have thought it possible before seeing Orson. 

It is only now, alone in his dark room, huddling under his blankets, that Galen realizes how much he had relied on the idea that Orson was somewhere out there, the same as he had always been. It is only now that he remember all the nights he’d lain awake in those dirty bunks, shells exploding overhead, thinking to himself that at least Orson was somewhere, safe in a bunker, untouched by the horrors of war and the terrors of the long wait for the end. 

He had let himself drift off with the knowledge that at least one of them would come through this without the edges of his soul worn raw and ragged. 

It was a lie. 

Orson is just as broken as he is. Perhaps someone else might find that a comforting thought, might be able to take solace in the idea that they are still just the same as one another, but Galen can’t find it in himself. For all that he hated Orson these long years, hated him for choosing what had seemed an escape, he had been happy in the idea Orson was safe. He wishes, in the quiet corner of his mind, that one of them had been saved.

Instead, he knows now, they both met damnation there on the killing fields.


	2. Chapter 2

School Street is almost empty this time of day. It’s late in the morning, 10 am, but Mr. Skywalker had indicated that he had a previous engagement, and Galen hadn’t challenged it. Instead, he and Orson stand outside the Watch and Ward headquarters. Orson leans against the bricks, coat drawn up about him, and hat pulled low. When they’d first arrived, Galen had joked that perhaps Orson didn’t want to be recognized. Orson had given him a look.

“If you were a crime writer, would you want people to see you lurking around outside this building?”

Galen had thought back to each of the Society’s lawsuits, to the arguments over each book the Society tried to ban from the city. He’d nodded, understanding at last. 

So now he stands, feet apart, not saying anything, the sky gunmetal grey above them. He tips his head to one side, watching Orson blow smoke up to join the clouds above them. He knows, if he opens his mouth, what will come out is not a question about Mr. Skywalker. The words are welling up in his throat. There are too many questions about the past few years trying to push their way out all at once, and if he lets them free, they’ll never stop coming. 

He cannot do this again. Losing Orson last time almost broke him. He’d arrived at basic a wreck, the one portrait he had of Orson turning into a wrinkled mess in his pocket as he ran his fingers over it during every desperate night. If he tries again, he will break and fall, and all that will be left is bitterness. 

The door bangs open. A portly man steps out, face red with frustration. He looks at the two of them and huffs.

“Good luck in there. You’ll need it,” he grunts, then hurries off down the street, head ducked down and feet shuffling. 

Galen looks at Orson. Orson’s face is set, and he draws himself up, his overcoat rippling behind himself as he steps inside the building. Galen follows, eyes fixed on the fluttering hem of the coat. Orson plants himself in front of the secretary, hat still on. 

“We’re here to see Mr. Skywalker. He’ll remember me,” Orson gestures behind himself. “And this Detective Erso.”

The secretary looks between them skeptically. Galen blushes a little, pulling off his hat. He coughs, and Orson glances over. His breath comes out in a huff as he takes in Galen’s expression, but he tugs off his hat as well. 

“Mr. Skywalker will see you now,” she finally tells them, standing and pulling open a door behind her desk. She leads them down a dark wood paneled hall to a door with “Mr. Anakin Skywalker, junior board member” emblazoned across it in gold lettering. She knocks once, then lets them in.

Anakin Skywalker is younger than Galen expected. He’s just a few years younger than both Galen and Orson, old enough to have fought in the war, and there’s a scar running down his face that attests to that. He’s tall too, his slim frame and handsome face pretty enough that Galen’s heart might have beaten a little faster if anyone else but Orson had been in the room with him. As it is, Galen simply extends his hand. 

“Mr. Skywalker, I’m Detective Erso. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Skywalker’s grip is strong, his fingers squeezing tight around Galen’s as they shake. 

“You as well. I suppose you’re here about that woman they found the other day.”

Galen nods. Skywalker sits back down behind his desk. Orson, Galen notices, is already sitting, sprawled out in one of the heavy chairs facing Skywalker’s desk. Galen wants to chide him for it, but instead he simply sinks into the other chair. 

“Could you detail your involvement in the incident?” Galen asks, pulling out his notebook. 

“Didn’t that reporter tell you?” Skywalker’s voice is almost harsh as he glances at Orson. 

“I want to hear it in your own words,” Galen tells him. 

“The Society is hoping to do more good works in the North End,” Skywalker tells him. “I was going down to talk to a potential new member, someone who is as interested as we are in keeping our city free of the evils that threaten it. When I saw the ruckus over behind Mr. Rossi’s shop, I headed over to see if the Society’s assistance was needed.”

Galen nods, making notes. There is something about the flame in Skywalker’s eyes when he says “good works” that makes his stomach clench. 

“Forgive me, Mr. Skywalker,” he forces the words out against the growing uneasiness in the back of his mind, “but I was under the impression that Watch and Ward primarily dealt with the elimination of obscenities.”

“That’s correct.”

“So what assistance did you believe you could render?”

Skywalker’s laugh is deep, rumbling across his desk to swirl around Galen. He glances over at Orson, and Orson’s face is twisted up, eyes tight. 

“Mr. Erso - forgive me - Detective Erso, Watch and Ward has many capabilities. We can always be of assistance when we believe our citizens are in danger.”

“Danger from what?” Orson asks, too quick for Galen to stop him. 

“Vice, perversion,” Skywalker almost hisses the words, “the evils that plague us. You may believe we won the war to end all wars, but I do not. There are always new threats.”

“Such as?” Galen leans forwards.

“The North End is a mess of illegal drinking, gambling, _fornication_ ” Skywalker almost spits the words. “The Society will not stand for it any longer.”

Galen clears his throat. He stands up, beckoning to Orson to come. When he’s almost at the door, he turns back to Skywalker, meeting his eyes. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Skywalker. I just have one more question. Where were you the night before last, between the hours of midnight and five in the morning?”

Skywalker’s face twists up, and he stands up, hands thumping down on the desk. He looms across it at them, shadow falling huge on the wall behind him. 

“ _With my wife, Detective._ Now if that will be all? I believe you can find your own way out.”

The door bangs shut behind them, and Galen lets out a long breath. 

***

When the diner’s bell rings, the waitress looks up. She smiles at Galen, then glances over his shoulder, eyes lighting on Orson. Her practiced grin splits into something a little wider, and an itch starts to form in between Galen’s shoulder blades. He rolls them, trying to get it to go away, but instead, all that he gets is a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Galen shakes his head and makes his way to a rickety table in the corner, not looking at her. 

He throws his hat onto the peg next to the table, hanging his overcoat next to it. Then he slumps into one of the chairs. Orson grins at him, and for a single, wild moment, he looks just as he did before the war. His eyes gleam with delight, fire and pleasure somewhere melding to form a tease. They call to Galen, daring him to say something, daring him to do anything, and Galen groans. He has no right even to say anything. If Orson wants to flirt with the pretty waitress, he can. 

“What can I get you fellas?” 

“Well, doll, I think I could use a cup of joe,” Orson tells her. “Get one for my friend here as well.”

Galen doesn’t so much as glance up at her. It’s the same bird as always, and he doesn’t want see the interest in her eyes as she looks at them. He can see when she leaves, though, the heels of her soft shoes tapping on the grimy wooden floor. It’s only then that he meets Orson’s gaze. 

“Jealous?” Orson whispers, voice so low that there’s not chance anyone heard. Galen shivers in spite of himself, eyes darting around to make sure there’s no one close. 

“Of what?” he responds, voice just as low. 

“It’s been a long time, you know. I might just have changed my interests.”

Galen buries his face in his hands, looking down at the stained wood of the table. Orson’s low voice is too teasing, too intimate for this place, for this time. 

“Orson…” he groans. “Not now. We’ll talk about this later. After we finish the case.”

When he glances up, the mask of Orson’s bravado has fallen away. His shoulders are slumped, his lips pursed as he catches Galen’s eye.

“Swear it to me, Galen,” he says. His voice is just as low as before, but all the good humor has gone from it, and what is left is the raw scratch of emotion.

“Alright. I swear. We’ll talk about it after I catch whoever is doing this.”

Orson nods. It carries all the weight of their years apart, and Galen’s chest tightens. This isn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to find some nice Catholic girl, maybe one from St. Augustine’s sister school. They would get married and have a daughter, and he would live happily ever after. Instead, he’s tied to this man, every part of his soul crying out to be closer to Orson, his fingers aching to feel Orson’s skin again. He’d thought their time apart would have erased this feeling from his mind, but it hasn’t. Instead, all it’s done has made him feel it more severely. 

“Galen…” Orson starts, looking at him. “I…”

“Not now!” Galen says, too loud. A man at the next table looks over, and Galen glares. 

“Alright.”

They sit in silence until the waitress comes back with their coffee. She sets it down in front of them, grinning. Orson doesn’t look at her this time, though, and she gives a soft huff and walks away. Galen smiles, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“So, Skywalker…” Orson starts, a little too quickly. 

“Did he really just come over to the crime scene like that?” 

“Dunno,” Orson shrugs, “He was already there when I showed up. Looked like he’d been there quite a while. He was chatting with one of the bulls.”

Galen takes a sip of his coffee. He’s never met this Anakin Skywalker - he generally keeps his distance from Watch and Ward whenever possible - but it’s not out of the realm of possibility that he’s friendly with people on the force. There are a lot of them that agree with the Society’s mission. 

“Do you think he’s actually worth looking into? I mean, was that last bit in his office strange to you?”

Orson shifts on his chair. He takes a long drag from his cup, then fumbles out a fag, lighting it with a quick flick of a match. 

“He’s very… passionate?” He blows smoke out, letting it wreathe his head for a few long moments. “It was odd, but then again, you don’t get ‘tecs asking you where you were the night of a murder every day.”

Galen shakes his head. He clenches his hand on top of the table, fingers pressing hard against his palm.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says.

“What did you mean?”

“All that about eliminating wrongdoing…” 

“Feeling caught out?” Orson’s back to teasing, but there’s an edge of steel underneath the laughter in his voice. 

“No!” Galen tells him. “It just seemed a little… over the top.”

Orson looks at him for a few seconds, eyes roaming over Galen’s face. Under his stare, Galen’s cheeks color. He’s always been astonished by how confident Orson is in himself, by how easily Orson simply accepts who he is. Now is no different. 

“Sure…” Orson finally says. “A little.”

“I want to talk to someone else who knows him. Just to make sure. Maybe that wife of his he mentioned. A wife always knows what’s going on, better than her husband even.”

“Partners tend to know,” Orson says. “And a wife is a sort of partner. There are others, of course.”

His eyes press too hard into Galen, and Galen raises his mug quickly, hiding himself. 

“Are we talking about Skywalker?” he asks from behind it.

“Who else would we be talking about? Maybe Skywalker has a partner he works with in the Society,” Orson says. His voice is light, but Galen still can’t bring himself to catch Orson’s eyes. 

“Maybe.”

***

Galen looks into the darkness of his cup of joe, staring down as though somewhere in its depths, he’ll be able to find an escape, a way back to his blissful lonely life. His skin is tight. It doesn’t fit anymore, someone else is pushing himself through, crawling from the depths of his soul where Galen stashed that part of himself after he and Orson broke things off. Across from him, Orson is drumming his fingers on the table, cigarette dangling off his lip. The scent is sharp in Galen’s nose, drifting across the table in slow puffs. 

He clears his throat. He should send Orson home, should tell him to go back to his paper, to his work. This is a matter for the police. Before he can say anything, though, a shadow falls across the table. When Galen looks up, it’s one of the courier boys from the precinct. Galen cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“Sergeant Veers said you’d be here, Detective Erso,” he blurts out, voice coming too fast. “They’ve found another of those girls you were interested in.”

Galen starts up from the table, almost knocking over his mug when his knee bangs the wood. He rubs at the smarting bruise as he tries to grab his coat and hat, and manages to almost topple over again in the process. 

“Careful, Galen,” Orson murmurs, standing up more slowly. 

“Do you know where she is?” Galen says, taking a deep breath. 

“The Sarg said she was over near North Street again.” 

Galen sighs. 

“Take me to her,” he beckons over the waitress, dropping a few coins into her hand. “Keep the change, doll.”

“I’m coming with you,” Orson’s voice come sharp behind him. 

“So you can report that the police still have no leads?” Galen snaps. 

“Galen!” Orson’s hand clasps tight on his arm where Galen is struggling to put on his coat. “No.”

“Then what? This isn’t a pleasure jaunt, Orson.” Galen can feel the boy’s eyes on them, and he shifts a little away from Orson. 

“You can’t do this alone.”

“Can’t I?” Galen almost laughs. “I’ve been doing it alone for years now, Orson. You’re not needed here.”

Orson’s face falls, his eyes lowering and his mouth thinning out. Then he looks up, but not at Galen. 

“Will you excuse us? We need to go discuss this in private. Get yourself a cup of joe. We’ll be right outside.” He flips the boy a coin. 

“Thank you, sir!” the boy chirps as Orson starts pulling Galen towards the door. Galen follows him, not wanting to make more of a scene than he already has. 

Orson doesn’t stop right outside the door. Rather, he leads Galen around the corner into the alley that runs down the side of the building. It’s just wide enough for three men to stand abreast, and there’s a pile of trash in one corner that makes Galen’s nose wrinkle. Orson doesn’t seem to notice, instead pushing Galen behind the long metal stairs that lead up to the second storey. 

“ _You need me_ , Galen.”

“Fuck you, Orson. No I don’t. I can do my own job.”

“I never said you couldn’t. But I saw your face when he said there was another one. You’re getting too close to this entire thing.”

“Are you saying I should be like you? Sitting in the dark in a dirty room, banging at a typewriter and trying to regain some of the promise I lost in the war?”

Even as the words leave Galen’s mouth, he winces at them. Whatever is going on out there, whatever evil stalks their streets, killing off women whose only crime was wanting to survive, it is not Orson’s fault. But the words have already been flung like arrows, and Galen can see they have hit their mark.

“Fine. I thought you wanted my help with this, I thought I could make things better for you, if only for old times sake, but if you think it’s like that, I’ll go.” Orson turns to leave, letting his hand drop from Galen’s arm.

“Orson…” Galen murmurs. Then louder, “Orson, I… I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you shouldn’t. But you did, and now I know how you feel.” Orson’s voice is as bitter as old coffee.

“I don’t. I mean, I don’t want to feel that way. I want… I think I want things like they were.”

“What’s this truly about, Galen?” Orson turns to face him, pressing his lips together. 

“I don’t know,” Galen admits. 

“I know you can do the work on your own. But will you be happy at the end of the day? Will you go back home feeling satisfied, feeling washed clean of the filth that you see every day?”

“Do you?” Galen asks in a small voice.

“I can’t even free myself of the past, Galen. What makes you think I can make the present vanish any better?”

“So why do you think you can help?” This time Galen’s voice is calmer, asking in truth. 

“I don’t know. But I know that things are better with you. I… I have missed you so much, Galen.”

Galen glances down the alley, then up to see if anyone is peering out a window, spying on this moment. There are no shadows though and no one looking down at them in interest. There are no other voices floating down to them and letting them know they are being watched. 

He reaches out, and his fingertips just touch Orson’s cheek, tracing down the side and running over his smooth cheek. Orson leans into the touch, eyelids fluttering shut, and Galen’s skin grows hot. They stand there, just connected through the light press of Galen’s fingers on the curve of Orson’s chin.

“I have missed you too,” Galen whispers. “I think… I think I don’t want to take you with me, because I’ve been trying to convince myself that you are helping because it’s me, not because of the case. And if you come with me, well, you’re coming to see part of the case, and that’s where my dreams end.”

“I’m not,” Orson says quickly, “just coming because of the case, I mean. I’m coming to help _you_ get through this. I won’t even write about it if you don’t want.”

Galen stares at him. This might be a huge scoop, a break for Orson, who obvious needs a break more than anyone Galen can think of. 

“You’re serious?” he gasps.

“Yes.” 

“I… I don’t want you to stop writing about the case. It might be the only way to get the precinct to treat it seriously. But, Orson, come with me. I do need you, I think.”

“I’ve always needed you.” Orson tells him. He turns his head just the slightest bit, and his lips brush across Galen’s fingers. Galen shivers, then pulls them away. 

“Later. We’ll… just later.”

“You swear?”

“I do.”

***

When they go back inside, the boy is chatting to the pretty waitress. Galen has a moment of heartburn at tearing him away, but he’s got to get to this body before the bulls make a mess of it. It doesn’t take long, though, before they’re on their way. 

The boy keeps glancing over at Orson as they walk. Galen lets out a long sigh, then catches up with him, smiling a little.

“What’s your name?”

“Tom, sir. Tom McMillan.”

“Alright, Tom. Do you want to become a cop when you get older?”

“Yessir! Me Da was on the force, y’see.”

Galen smiles at that. He wonders what it would be like, a father with a trade like that to follow. His own father had peddled odds and ends on the side of the street downtown until the cough got too bad and he couldn’t manage to stand outside in the wet and the cold. 

“You’ve made a good start, then,” he tells Tom. He drops his voice conspiratorially, “Mr. Krennic, there, he doesn’t trust the police to do their jobs.”

“Sir?”

“He’s a reporter with the Post. I’m going to show him that we know exactly what we’re doing.”

Tom’s face lights up. He leans in towards Galen, voice also a bit of a whisper.

“You think he can handle it, sir? This ‘uns a bit ‘o a mess”

“He’ll do fine. Fought in the war, you know.”

“Did you?” the boy’s eyes are wide with awe. 

“Both of us did.”

“I was too young,” he says wistfully. 

“That’s a good thing, Tom. More than a good thing. Wars are horrible things.”

“Still…”

They round the corner before Galen has to continue the conversation. He wipes a hand across his face quickly, then resettles his hat on his head, squaring his shoulders. Then he stalks over to where a cluster of officers are standing, blocking the alley. 

“Afternoon, boys.” He interrupts what looks to be a very important conversation about the latest ballgame. 

“Detective Erso!” They snap to attention. “Didn’t know you were working this case.”

“I am now.”

“Captain thinks it has something to do with the mafia?” one of them asks, dropping his voice. 

“I don’t know yet,” Galen’s voice is curt, short. “I’d like to see the body. You haven’t moved it, have you.”

One of the other officers winces, and Galen recognizes him in a flash. He was there the last time Galen ranted at them for messing up a crime scene before he arrived. 

“No sir!” the talkative one responds. “We were told to wait for the ‘tec.” 

Galen nods. He starts past them, then turns as they close ranks, leaving Orson on the other side of their line. He purses his lips, shaking his head a little. 

“Let him through. He’s with me.”

“Sir?”

“Mr. Krennic is assisting the police in this investigation. Let him through.”

“Sir, it’s a bit of a mess in there.”

“I understand, now, do I have to repeat myself?” Galen puts a little of the war’s steel into his voice. 

“N-no!” They make just enough space that Orson can squeeze through. He makes his way to Galen’s side, brushing off his coat where it touched the bulls uniforms. He steps close to Galen, just close enough that no one else can hear him when he whispers. 

“Very commanding.”

“Orson!” Galen hisses. Orson grins at him, eyes sparkling, but then he looks past Galen. His expression collapses in on itself, and he points a single shaking finger. 

Galen turns, and winces. High up on the wall of the alley, almost as high as Galen’s own head, there are streaks of blood that lead around the corner. They look almost as if someone dragged their fingers down the wall as they left the scene of the crime. He takes a tentative step forwards, scanning the ground. 

“Don’t touch anything,” he tells Orson over his shoulder. Orson makes an indistinct sound of agreement, but Galen is already focused on the trail of blood that is scattered on the ground as well. 

He rounds the corner, and has to take a deep breath. The last body was simply bruised and beaten, a picture of simple rage. This is something more. He plants his feet a little more firmly, steadying himself. Then he makes his way to where the former cafe girl lies in a corner. He recognizes her uniform - what’s left of it - as one from Messina’s most popular cafe. 

Behind him, he can hear Orson coming around the corner. Before he can say anything, stop Orson from looking, there’s a sharp retort of intake breath. He turns to see Orson’s face going pale, blood draining from it like water rushing down a drain. 

“I… Galen, I know her…” Orson’s voice is weak. 

Before Galen can reply, can do anything, Orson’s clapping a hand over his mouth. For a moment, it seem as though he’s got himself back under control, but then he’s turning aside, hand flying to his stomach as he retches. Galen pushes himself from where he’s frozen in place. 

When he gets to Orson’s side, Orson’s been reduced to dry-heaving. Galen glances around, then puts his hand low on Orson’s back. He can feel Orson shaking, even through the thick layers of Galen’s gloves and Orson’s jacket. He strokes his hand up Orson’s spine, then brushes it through his hair slowly. 

“Take your time,” he whispers. 

Orson straightens up though, turning to him. His eyes are wide, and they keep darting across Galen’s shoulder to where the girl lies mangled in the dirt. Galen grabs Orson’s chin, holding him in place, forcing him to look into Galen’s eyes. 

“Look at me, Orson. Just at me.” He can feel Orson shaking still, a wild animal that has seen its fellow caught by the hunters. 

Galen has been here before, the sky cut off by walls of dirt, the bombs exploding overhead, his hands on a soldier who could not regain control of himself. His own breathing gets faster as he remembers the way they would freeze, the way they would stay in the open even after the order to take cover came, held in place by their own terror. He shakes his own head a little. This is not the war. 

“It’s alright. I’m here,” he whispers. 

“ _I know her_ ,” Orson repeats. “I’ve been to the cafe where she works. She was so sweet, Galen. Just the nicest thing.”

“Shhh,” Galen soothes, his own voice shaking a little. He looks around then alley one more time, then gathers Orson into his arms, pressing Orson’s face into his shoulder. “We’re going to catch whoever did this to her, and he’s going to face justice. But to do that, I need you to help me to collect evidence. I don’t trust those knuckleheads out there to do it. Can you help me with that?”

Now that Orson is pressed against him, Galen realizes this is the first time they’ve touched like this since before the war. Yet even so, Orson fits right into his arms, soft and solid. He strokes Orson’s back quickly, feeling how Orson’s shaking slowly subsides. 

“Thank you,” Orson finally whispers. 

Galen bites his lip. Now is not the time to think of how he doesn’t remember the last time he heard those words pass Orson’s lips, heard an honest apology. Now is not the time to think of Orson at all. 

“What’s her name?” he asks, before he can start thinking too hard. 

“Clara,” Orson tells him, stepping a little away, his voice shaking. “I don’t know her surname. Something German, I think.”

Galen nods. He goes back to the body, carefully stepping around her skirt, flared out in the dirt and streaked with rust-red. His notebook shakes a little in his hand when he pulls it out. Galen clenches his fingers hard on the pen, and he finally stops shaking. 

“I want to try something,” he says to Orson. “Look around. I want you to see if you can find any fingerprints.”

“Fingerprints?”

“They’ve started using them to identify criminals in Europe. We can do the same here.” Galen gestures around, keeping his voice soft. “Do you think you could do that for me?” 

“I… Of course,” Orson tells him. Galen nods. They can do this. Together, they can finish this. 

***

Galen carries his case carefully, the few fingerprints that Orson managed to find carefully lifted and shut up inside. He tries to pull open the door to the precinct anyway, but Orson manages to grab it first, yanking it so hard that it almost bounces off the wall before he catches it. Galen raises an eyebrow, but Orson says nothing, only motions him to go inside. He shrugs a little, then steps into the building. He nods to the secretary at the desk in front.

“Is Tarkin in yet?”

“Been in for about four hours, Detective Erso,” she looks up, a little distractedly, from the papers she’s pouring over. “That a visitor or a suspect?”

“This is Orson Krennic. He’s helping with the investigation. Can you give him… I don’t know… some sort of temporary instatement.”

“Got to talk to the captain about that, daddy-o. He some kinda dick?” 

Galen sucks on his lip. He could say that Orson was a private investigator, could tell her that just to get him in the door, but the moment Orson is recognized by someone, they’ll all know. He shakes his head. 

“Reporter,” he finally replies. 

“Ooooh-ee!” she crows, “Detective Erso, working with the press. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“He’s an old friend,” Galen says curtly. “And he got a lead before I ever found one.”

“All right ‘tec. Your funeral when he writes all about how the precinct’s a bunch of rag-a-muffin bulls and leaves you holding the bag.”

“Later, Miss Etta,” Galen sighs. Then he makes his way deeper into the building, Orson at his heels. 

When the get to it, Tarkin’s door is closed, but his light is on inside. Galen raises his free hand to knock, taking a deep breath. Tartan’s not a bad captain, but he has a tendency not to believe in things unless he sees them with his own eyes. And he’s been very reluctant to mess with Messina’s boys without really solid evidence. 

“Come,” Tarkin’s voice echoes out into the hall, and Galen pulls the door open. 

“Detective Erso, I thought I might be seeing you today. And… is that Mr. Krennic?”

Galen glances over his shoulder. Orson’s lips are pursed, as though he’s sucking on something sour. Orson tilts his head to one side, nodding just the slightest bit. 

“Captain Tarkin,” he mutters. 

“You didn’t mention you knew one another,” Galen tries to keep his voice light. 

“We were acquainted,” Tarkin waves his hand to the chairs in front of his desk. “During the war, that is.”

Galen settles himself in front of Tarkin, watching as Orson lowers himself gingerly into the other seat. His eyes have gone dark, the flame all drained out of them to leave them like pits of never-ending night. Orson grips the arms of his chair, knuckles going white, his big hands straining against the wood. Galen’s stomach twists, and his fingers jerk a little where he has them wrapped around the case of evidence, an aborted attempt to reach out to Orson. 

“So, Detective,” Tarkin’s voice cuts through Galen, and he forces himself to relax just a little, looking away from Orson, “I take it you think you’ve made progress on the North End killings.”

“Yes, sir,” Galen replies. 

“I do hope you haven’t come to ask me to assign more people to the case. We have our work cut out for us rooting out bolsheviks in the precinct.”

Galen holds back a huff. If the city spent a little more time on their people, rather than on fighting enemies that don’t really exist, they wouldn’t have to worry about things like women being killed off in the dead of the night. He says nothing though, just shifting a little. 

“I’m helping Galen out, Tarkin,” Orson’s voice is clipped, filling the silence. “I’ve got a few leads of my own.”

“And do those leads go back to fantasy enemies sabotaging facilities that are desperately needed, or perhaps just simple carelessness?” Tarkin laughs a little. “Oh wait, I forgot. You said you’d given up on fantasies a long time ago.”

Galen looks between them, watching as Orson glares at Tarkin, all the restraint gone from him. Orson is leaning forwards in his chair, poised, about to spring. Tarkin, on the other hand, has his legs spread wide, lazy and relaxed even as he stares Orson down.

“I don’t know about that,” Galen clears his throat, “But Orson has been invaluable to the investigation so far. With his help, I have managed to interview a man who was at the scene of the first confirmed murder almost as soon as the police arrived, and I have also lifted fingerprints from the scene of the most recent crime.”

Tarkin shifts his attention, glancing down at the case in Galen’s hands. 

“Fingerprints? You are aware they are not accepted as definitive evidence yet, at least not by our courts?” 

“Yes sir,” Galen nods, “but that doesn’t mean they can’t be of aid in my investigation. And in any case, the court has to start paying attention to advances in science at some point.” 

“Why detective,” Tarkin smirks a little at him, “it almost sounds as if you want the courts of Massachusetts to be reasonable.”

Galen grins back. As much as he’s unsure of Tarkin’s place on the force, uncertain about how he was brought in to restore order after the police strike in ’19, there is a certain spice about him… Galen looks over at Orson, biting his lip. He may like Tarkin just fine, but Orson looks as though he’s ready to vomit again, or maybe tear Tarkin apart limb from limb. Galen shakes his head. 

“No, sir. Just hoping that I can catch whoever’s behind this.”

“And if it turns out to be Messina?”

“Frankly, I can’t see him bumping off his own birds.” 

“They’re all his?”

“So far, even the ones who are missing. It seems more like someone has a grudge against Messina’s clubs than against the girls themselves.”

“Alright,” Tarkin nods. “But you come to me right away if it looks like this could be connected to the bolshies, or to Messina. I don’t want us going under just because you got too interested in proving your scientific advances are valuable to the force.”

“Of course,” Galen snaps out. He glances over again. Orson’s knuckles are white on the chair again. “If you don’t have any more advice for us, sir, I think Orson and I should go back to the case.”

Tarkin waves a lazy hand, and they both stand up. Just as they’re about to walk out the door, he calls out. 

“It was… interesting to see you again, Mr. Krennic.” 

“Captain Tarkin,” Orson grits, then steps out quickly, putting Galen between him and the open door. It closes slowly, and then they’re trapped in the silence of the corridor. Galen leads Orson down the hall towards the bullpen, but pulls him into an open doorway just before they get there. 

“What,” he hisses, “was that all about?”


	3. Chapter 3

Galen wakes up in the morning with his head pounding. Orson’s bootleg rotgut is terrible, far worse than anything he ever drank before the war. He can’t quite believe he made it back to his own little room, let alone managed to tear off his uniform and crawl, naked, into bed. It’s in a pool on the floor, his jacket crumpled and folded.

He sighs. He’s going to have to wear the older one today, with its moth-eaten corners and frayed cuffs. Galen pulls himself out of bed, staggering over to the washbasin in the corner and filling it slowly. He douses his face quickly. He has a few minutes before he really needs to start getting ready - before he needs to head down to the newly installed bathing room just down the hall, but as the cold water cascades over his face, the night before floods back to him in painful color. 

Orson hadn’t said much. He’d invited Galen back to his little set of rooms after Galen had stowed the evidence away in a locked box at the precinct - can’t talk about this here, he’d murmured. Once they’d gotten there, Orson had pulled out the unmarked bottle of liquor, telling Galen that there was no chance he was saying anything else about the war until they were good and greased up. Galen had nodded. 

And Orson had finally told him a little, after they were curled up on the couch, Orson’s head against his shoulder. “I… Tarkin and I were in the same development group in the war,” he’d whispered. “Gas. You know they made gas right? We made it. Well, Tarkin and I oversaw different parts of the project.”

Galen had stroked his hair, not knowing what to say. Orson’s eyes had gone wide, as though he was staring off into some other place, somewhere where there was nothing for him but death and darkness, and Galen had not known how to bring him back. He’d only let his fingers dance over the side of Orson’s face, hoping that old comfort might call him home. 

Orson had fall silent after that, and no matter how much they’d drunk, no matter how Galen had told him that it was over, that they were safe, that there would be no more war, at least not for them, Orson had not been able to say anything else. He’d choked on the words, his throat closing up and holding him lost in a dark fantasy of the past. Eventually Galen had stopped asking. They’d sat there for almost an hour, silent and haunted by the dead. 

Finally Orson had told him to go. And Galen had left, stumbling out the door, wondering if Orson really meant it. But there was nothing he could do. He has no claim on Orson now, and Galen isn’t sure if he wishes that were different. 

In any case, what claim could he ever have? Only the one born of long familiarity, of shared words and shared nights. Nothing more. 

Galen pulls on his robe, stumbling down the hall. He needs to get cleaned up. There is no time to muse over the problems of his own desires. They have to finish this case and they have to bring justice to women who will never get it on their own. That is all he should be focusing on. 

***

When they arrive outside Watch and Ward’s offices for the second time in two days, Galen is feeling a little more human. He’d scalded himself in the new hot water shower-bath, washing away grime and dirt. As much as his room is small and dank, the water in the building makes it all worthwhile. 

Orson walks up to him, his hat set at a jaunty angle on his head. When he gets close enough, Galen takes a single step forward, bringing him up to Orson’s ear. 

“About last night,” he says, voice low.

“Not now, Galen. That was a mistake. I shouldn’t… You don’t need… There is no obligation for you to listen to my problems.” Orson’s voice is clipped, even as he seems to force the words out. 

“I…” Galen starts again.

“Not now!” Orson repeats, louder, loud enough that a passerby starts, looking over at them. Galen purses his lips, but doesn’t try again. After the case is done, that’s when he can get to the bottom of this.

“Alright, fine,” he pulls open the door into the office, beckoning for Orson to go in first. “After the case.” 

Orson gives an almost imperceptible nod, then steps inside. The secretary looks up from her papers. 

“You’re here again?” she asks. 

“We’ve got an appointment with,” Galen checks his notebook, “Benjamin Kenobi?” It sounds like a Jewish name, but there’s no chance of that with Watch and Ward. Maybe an old Puritan family.

“Mr. Kenobi is in a meeting, but if you’ll just wait right there, I’m sure he’ll be out soon.” Her voice is frosty. She gestures to hard backed chairs without cushions, as straight and unyielding as Galen is beginning to think Watch and Ward is as a whole. 

Galen settles himself down, wondering at the kind of people who can do this to themselves. Even at St. Augustine’s, growing up, they were afforded the basic comforts that any human enjoys. He shakes his head. Perhaps this is simply the protestant way. He has never really understood it, that turn from the majesty and beauty of the church to this stark austerity that puts all pleasures to the knife. 

Even the nuns did not believe that, or did not believe that all were called to that life. He remembers, vividly, in his meetings with the Mother Superior at the end of his schooling, when he’d made murmurs of becoming a priest. She’d taken his hand, pressing it between her own wrinkled fingers. 

“Galen Erso,” she’d said, “if that is your calling, then I will not stop you. But you are a good Catholic, a good man. You have much to give to the world, and I do not think you are ready for that step. I have seen you with your friends, have seen you in the world, and I do not think this is the time for you to choose this commitment.” 

He’d left, confused, going to Orson and kneeling by his feet. And in kneeling, he’d known that his personal idols were still on Earth, and he was not ready to guide anyone, let alone himself. 

He shakes his head. There is something in this building, in the self righteousness that paints every wall, that sets his teeth on edge. They are all sinners, each and every human on this green earth, and Watch and Ward has no more right to condemn than Galen ever has had. 

“Detective Erso?” 

A clear voice shakes him from his memories, and Galen straightens up, looking at the man standing before him. He’s bearded, dressed with more of a flare than Galen remembers from Skywalker’s somber blacks. 

“Yes?” 

“I’m Benjamin Kenobi. I believe you wanted to speak with me about my friend Anakin Skywalker.”

Galen reaches out his hand, shaking Kenobi’s outstretched on. His grip is tight, and Galen can feel the calluses that wrap across his palm. 

“This is Orson Krennic, who is assisting me on the investigation,” Galen nods to Orson.

“A pleasure. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

Galen looks around the reception room. The secretary is leaning forwards, her ears cocked towards them in a less than subtle stance. 

“The matter is a sensitive one,” Galen begins. 

“Say no more. If you’ll follow me to my office…” Kenobi turns and heads down the same hall he came out of. “Can I offer you some tea? I’m afraid I don’t have any coffee.”

Galen glances at Orson, whose eyes are as wide as his own feel. 

“N-no thank you. I don’t think it will be a terribly long conversation.”

“Of course,” Kenobi says as he leads them into a cozy corner office. There are books lining one shelf, and a heavy table in the center. It’s nowhere near as austere as Skywalker’s, and Galen immediately feels more at ease. 

“So what is it you wanted to ask me? Anakin is a particular friend of mine - I was his mentor when he first came to Watch and Ward, and we served together in the war.”

Galen settles himself in the chair that Kenobi gestures to, letting Orson speak first. 

“Mr. Skywalker was recently one of the first people on the scene of a crime. We’d just like to eliminate him from the suspect pool,” Orson smiles as he leans forwards in his seat. 

Kenobi cocks his head to one side, his eyes widening. 

“Anakin didn’t mention anything about it,” he says.

“It was a cafe girl,” Galen tells him. “I’m sure he did not feel it was important enough to report.”

Kenobi sighs. “Anakin has always been so devoted to protecting the people that sometimes I think he forgets that even those from whom they should be protected are people as well.” 

There’s a small twitch at the corner of Kenobi’s eye. Galen fixes his eyes on it. In the midst of Kenobi’s calm serenity, it stands out like the beacon of a lighthouse.

“In any case, we’d like to know his whereabouts that night,” Orson says quickly. 

“When was this?” Kenobi asks, voice a half step higher than before.

“Just a few nights ago. Don’t worry. We’re not asking you to confirm an alibi. Mr. Skywalker told us that we could get one from his wife. We simply want to know if you believe her to be a reliable source. We were told you are quite close to the family.”

Kenobi nods now, shoulders relaxing. Galen wants to write it all down, the way that Kenobi seemed to be steeling himself to lie for Skywalker, then relaxed when he knew he didn’t have to, but he doesn’t want to break the conversational nature of the interview by pulling out his book. He resigns himself to making notes after the fact. 

“Mrs. Skywalker, Padme, she’s about as reliable as you can get. Well educated, went to Radcliffe. She’s an invaluable part of the temperance circles here.” 

Galen almost snorts. He’s not sure he’d call anyone in a temperance society “reliable,” but at least the woman is well educated. 

“Do you think she’d be willing to confirm her husband’s story for us?” 

“Without a doubt,” Kenobi nods. 

Orson stands up. He folds his hands behind his back, and Galen can see him clenching them together. 

“Thank you, Mr. Kenobi. I believe that will be all,” Galen says, as he stands as well. He has to admit that he wants to clench his own hands too. As much as Kenobi seems a better sort than Skywalker, there is something about this place that sets his teeth on edge. 

“Give my regards to Padme, if you do go speak to her,” Kenobi says.

***

They catch a cab to Skywalker’s house. Galen holds his notebook in his lap as they bounce along, trying to write down his impressions of Kenobi on the way. Orson just leans back, eyes closed and mouth slack. This close to him, Galen can see the deep shadows underneath his eyes. They’re far darker than if they were simply the leftover detritus of a single night’s bender. They’re graven into his face, lines that stretch too deep into his skin to ever be undone. 

A particularly violent jolt has them flying open, and Galen catches Orson’s eye. For a moment, they simply look at one another. Orson’s eyes are glassy. Galen slides his leg over so that they’re just touching. 

“So,” he starts. 

“Not now,” Orson sighs. “Please, Galen.”

“I was simply going to speculate on Kenobi,” Galen says, a little affronted. 

Orson shakes his head, sitting forward in his seat. 

“I… I’m sorry, Galen.” The words seem ripped from his throat, tearing their way upward to the dim light of the cab. 

“I know,” Galen shakes his head again. “Look, I agree. Let’s just focus on the case. The rest can wait, at least for a little while.”

“Pos-i-lute-ly,” Orson’s voice snaps through the cab, “the best idea you’ve had all day.”

Galen shakes his head. From one extreme to the next in no time at all. Orson burns like foxfire, light winking in and out with no rhyme or reason. 

“So, Kenobi,” he starts, just as the cab pulls up to a sprawling Georgian house. He hands over the fare with a wink, then gets out. Orson follows, stumbling a little when his feet hit the bricks. 

“I don’t know. He looked like he was steeling himself to lie for Skywalker.”

Galen nods, pulling his hand away where he’d reached out to steady Orson. 

“I thought so too. And he didn’t know about the girl. I can’t see why Skywalker wouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s… strange.”

Orson tilts his head in agreement as they make their way up the wide walk to the front door of the house. Galen rings the bell, and in just a moment, a smartly dressed maid pulls it open. She runs her eyes over Orson quizzically, then takes in Galen’s uniform. 

“Is Mrs. Skywalker at home?” Galen asks. 

“She is not receiving visitors at this time,” the maid’s voice is as crisp as her apron. 

“This is a police matter,” Galen drops his voice a little. “I can’t imagine a woman of Mrs. Skywalker’s character would not like to assist us.” 

The maid huffs a little, but nods. “I will go inquire. Please step inside.”

She disappears down the long hall leading from the foyer as Orson and Galen step over the threshold. Galen raises an eyebrow at Orson when she’s out of sight. 

“Not what you expected?” Orson asks. 

“Not at all. I wonder… Skywalker didn’t seem like the type,” Galen’s only been in a house like this a few times. It positively reeks of old money, from the moulding on the baseboards to the carved umbrella stand in the corner and the receiving table with its engraved bowl for visiting cards. Before he can say anything else, though, the maid comes back, hands clasped in front of her. 

“Mrs. Skywalker will see you now,” she turns on her heel without checking to see if they’re following. Galen nods to Orson, and Orson takes the lead. 

“Mrs. Skywalker, these are the policemen I told you about,” the maid says. The room she’s led them into is airy and light, with wide bay windows on one side. A dark eyed woman is seated on one of the low couches, her hair caught up in an elaborate twist that Galen thinks might have been better suited to the fashions of a decade ago. Her dress, though, is in the best of taste, at least as far as he can tell. He wonders what Orson thinks of it. 

“That will be all, Nora. Gentlemen,” she says as she rises. She holds out her hand, and Orson bends over it, kissing it lightly. Galen mimics him, as strange as the greeting feels in this modern age. 

“Mrs. Skywalker, I’m Detective Erso. This is my associate, Mr. Krennic,”

“Charmed,” she settles herself back on her cushions. “Won’t you sit down?” 

“Mrs. Skywalker, We’re terribly sorry to intrude on you like this,” Orson says. His voice is nothing like the pained whisper of the cab. Charm seems to leak out of every syllable. It’s as though a veil has descended about him, and all that can be seen is the old Orson, the one who was the talk of every party. 

“Don’t trouble yourself. May I ask what brings you here?” The maid enters silently, setting a tea tray in front of Padme Skywalker. She pours carefully. “Cream or sugar?” she asks. 

“Cream and sugar for me,” Orson answers. “Neither for Detective Erso.” 

She smiles at that, handing them their cups. Then she sits forward, sipping a little at her tea as she waits for an answer. 

“Mr. Kenobi, of the Watch and Ward Society, suggested we come speak to you.”

“And how is he?” There’s something dark behind her eyes now, but Galen can’t quite catch what. 

“He sends his regards. We were interviewing him with regards to a crime that your husband may have witnessed.”

Padme Skywalker’s eyes fly open a little wider at that, but all she does is set her teacup down on the low table with a slight clink. 

“My husband?” she asks. 

“Yes ma’am. If you don’t mind us asking, was your husband at home three nights ago?” 

Mrs. Skywalker shifts her skirt, crossing her ankles before she answers. Galen notices the shimmer of her stockings, the bright banding around the hem of her skirt. 

“Of course,” she finally says. “I think we served chicken. I would have to check with the cook.” 

Orson purses his lips, but says nothing. They sit there in silence for a few moments, before Mrs. Skywalker speaks up again. 

“If I might ask, what crime did my husband witness?”

“We’re not sure if he was truly a witness, ma’am,” Galen replies, “and it’s… a bit of an indelicate manner.”

“I am not likely to faint,” she says, her eyes flaming. “I assure you, Detective, I have seen worse in my charity work than anything you could describe.”

“No offense was meant,” Orson hurries to say. “It was a murder in the North End. We think the victim and your husband might have been acquainted through his work with Watch and Ward.”

She folds her hands in front of herself, her face calm. 

“One of the poor souls there?” When Galen doesn’t answer, she continues, “My husband has become quite concerned with the corruption and vice that seems to run rampant in this city. We differ in how we believe it should be dealt with. I am a firm advocate of our charity work and the Temperance movement. He believes more direct action should be taken.”

“Direct action?” Galen asks. 

“He believes the police should take a stronger hand in shutting down those criminals in the North End. To tell you the truth, detective, I’m becoming concerned. My Anakin has never been very tolerant of those who tempt others to lives of vice. I’m worried some day he will offend the wrong people.”

Galen sets his own teacup down. He leans forwards, looking at her steadily. 

“I would not worry, Mrs. Skywalker. Watch and Ward is capable of defending their own. But if you would feel better, I will see that this matter is settled quickly.”

“Yes?”

“I believe I can rule your husband out as a witness quite simply. It will only require something he’s touched recently. A personal effect, a favored object, anything of that sort.”

“What will you do with it?”

“I plan to eliminate your husband as a person of interest using fingerprinting.”

“And that will help protect him against that gang of malcontents Messina is collecting?”

“I believe so. At least then he will be cleared of knowing anything about a murder of one of their own.”

She nods slowly. “I suppose I can provide you with something of the sort. Give me a few moments.”

She’s graceful as she stands again, heels clicking a little as she makes her way out of the room. As she leaves, the maid, Nora, comes back in to collect the tea things. Orson grins at her, giving her a little wink, but all she does is nod. 

Then Orson and Galen are alone in the parlor. Galen quirks his lips at Orson, and Orson shrugs back. This is not at all the way he would have expected Skywalker to live. 

The clink of Padme Skywalker’s returning heels has Galen rising from his seat. Orson stands up next to him. She hands Galen a glass wrapped in a lacy handkerchief.

“This is his water glass. I’ve tried not to touch it, because you said you were using fingerprints.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Skywalker,” Galen takes it carefully, placing it in his waiting leather case.

“Please make sure my husband is safe,” she tells them. 

“We’ll try,” Galen glances at Orson.

“Nora will show you out, then.” 

They both kiss her hand again, then walk to the door with Nora. She pulls it open, face pinched, then shuts it heavily behind them. Orson is silent until they step out onto the street. Then he turns to Galen, stopping dead in front of him. 

“When did you learn to lie?” he asks, voice a hiss. 

***

They walk a little ways towards the precinct. Galen tries to avoid Orson’s eyes, even as they press into him, even as they beg him for answers. When they finally get out of the Skywalkers’ neighborhood, Orson pulls him into a narrow alley between two tall office buildings. He sighs, his face heating as Orson purses his lips. 

“Galen, you owe me an answer,” Orson snaps. 

“I… Orson…”

“When did you learn to lie?” Orson presses his hands against Galen’s shoulders, pushing him back against the bricks of one wall. “You never could before. Lying is a sin, you always told me that.”

“Orson, please,” Galen’s throat catches. 

“No. Galen, I need to know. I need to know what happened to you. You asked me the same last night. Now it’s my turn.”

“You weren’t there, those early years. None of you were. Not at the Somme, not in those endless hours at Verdun. There were only sixty-eight of us, you know. Americans who volunteered in those early years to fight with the French, to fight in the legion. And you didn’t see them dying about you, all those people who had chosen to give their lives to stop the German line. You didn’t see the tanks plowing towards you, and know that there was nothing you could do about it.”

Galen is panting now, his eyes wet. He blinks hard, trying to slow the rise and fall of his chest. 

“I had to tell them it was going to be alright, Orson,” he shakes his head, “Some of them were younger than me, some of them I don’t even know what country they were from. We were all legionnaires. And I had to lie to them and tell them we would all make it home, that we would see our land again. We weren’t like the French. We weren't dying on our own soil, not really. No, I had to promise their bodies would make their ways home, even though I knew that we would all die there, in the stinking mud, with the bodies of our friends just out of reach beyond the line.” 

The tears finally slip free. They run down his face, to slide off his chin. Galen chews on his lip, trying to stop them, but now that he’s started remembering, there is nothing to do. He can see their faces floating in front of him. _Kenneth, Eugene, Rene._ He remembers their eyes as though he had seen them yesterday. _Frederic-Louis, Ricciotto,_ always scribbling in their notebooks, writing down poems for the ages. He remembers Kenneth’s mother, when he finally saw her, sobbing when he told her he had been there when her son died, then going back to the legionnaires, letting them all become her sons. 

“I had to, Orson,” he whispers. “God knows, I had to.”

Orson’s hands soften on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles into his skin through the thick cloth of his uniform. Then he steps closer, and suddenly his arms are wrapped around Galen’s waist. One of his hands sneaks up to cup the back of Galen’s neck, pulling him down until their foreheads are touching. 

“The war took a little bit of both of our souls,” he murmurs. “We’ve both been reborn through smoke and ash and the choking feel of blood in our throats.”

Galen lets his breath out in a long rush. He slumps into Orson’s arms, heart fluttering. 

“Do you think God watched the war?” he mutters. “I don’t know if the Mother Superior would think so, nor Father Sloane.”

“I don’t know, Galen,” Orson’s voice is soft. “I don’t know what I believe. But I don’t think you did the wrong thing. I don’t know what the right thing was, but you were not wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Galen whispers. 

“For what?”

“For telling you this. For asking you to bear this with me.” Another tear slips down Galen’s face, falling between them to darken the bricks of the alley. 

“Any burden of yours is one of mine. Now, and always, Galen.” Orson’s fingers brush through Galen’s hair. “I would not have it any other way.”

“Why?” Galen mutters, then louder, “why, Orson? I haven’t seen you in years, and we didn’t part on the best terms. Why?”

“I never stopped wondering about you, Galen. I never stopped thinking about you. Every night before I fell asleep, I imagined your face, just as it looked in that little garret we shared after school. In the war, I imagined you joining me, finally finding your way to me, and saving me from the horrors of that project, of the gas experiments. You’re the thing that completes me, the only way I’m whole. You’re the only way I can find my place in the world.”

Galen pulls away a little. Orson’s eyes are wide, his pupils blown out. His fingers clutch at Galen, lips parted a little. He looks broken open, cracked, and Galen can finally see the soft thing that lives in his heart. Orson has always been better at hiding than he has, better at lying, at fitting into whatever program is assigned him. But now, he seems to have shed his layers, peeled himself apart and revealed the shining core of his soul. 

“Do you… do you love me, Orson?” he asks in a shattered voice. 

“I always have,” Orson does not look at him when he says the words, but they ring more true than anything Galen has ever heard from his lips. 

***

Galen walks through the precinct, the air thick about him. He feels as though he’s in a dream, caught in the thick fog of his own memories, of Orson’s whispered declaration. He trails his fingers across the leather case sitting on his desk, trying to gather himself together. 

“Galen?” Orson’s voice cuts through him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Galen almost snaps. He still hasn’t responded to Orson, hasn’t said anything about the alley. It’s all he can think about though, the only thing lurking behind his eyes as he looks up at Orson. 

“Just… Don’t worry about earlier, Galen. Don’t think about it. We need to finish this case.” Orson pops the latch on the case. 

Galen shakes his head. Orson’s right again, of course. He opens the case, pulling the glass out gingerly. Then he sets it on his desk, pursing his lips. 

“Do you have anyone who can compare the prints?” Orson asks, voice level. 

“No,” Galen snaps. Then he sighs, “I’m sorry, Orson. We haven’t even started to use fingerprinting regularly in the department. I think I’m on my own for this one.”

“So what can I do to help?” Orson asks.

Galen stares down at the glass. They need to lift the prints from it. They need to compare them to the prints from the scene. Most of all, they need quiet. The bullpen hums with noise, the buzz of a dozen officers in one corner all chattering to each other drifting across the wide open space. He shifts his feet, looking around. 

“Grab that room,” he tells Orson, pointing at one of the interrogation rooms along the far wall. “We need somewhere to do this in quiet.”

Orson nods, making his way across the floor. He plants himself in front of the door, arms crossed, lounging back with almost unconcerned menace. Galen grins in spite of himself. Even after all this time, Orson can be whoever he chooses, project himself however he needs. 

Galen gathers the glass back up into the case, then pulls the carefully wrapped packet of prints from the locked drawer in his desk, slamming it closed afterwards. He tucks a magnifying glass into his front pocket. It’s heavy and thick. He had to beg Tarkin to pay for it with the precinct’s budget, claiming that it would assist them in multiple areas. Tarkin had finally acquiesced, after Galen had outlined carefully why the current glasses were simply not strong enough. 

He hurries across the floor, not looking at anyone else. When he gets to Orson, he pushes open the door. Inside, the interrogation room is bright, the light of a few bulbs shining on the walls. Orson stands against one wall, watching, lips pursed and eyes wide. 

“Where did you learn to do this?” he asks. 

“They taught it in France for a while. The Bertillon system, I mean, both his notions about identification based on appearance, and fingerprinting. I was interested.” Galen shakes his head a little. “I can’t believe how far behind we are here in the states.”

“You’ll change things,” Orson tells him, voice low and strong. 

Galen’s stomach clenches. So much confidence, so much belief. It has always been that way with Orson. He bends over the glass, dusting it carefully with the dark powder he had made up a few weeks ago on a whim. The prints stand out bright on the curved surface. There’s a thumb and three fingers. The thumb is a little smudged, but the other three are almost perfect. He sighs. All he can hope is that they’re the right prints.

Orson stands near the table, but says nothing. He only watches Galen work, arms crossed over his chest. As Galen pulls out the prints lifted from the crime scene, he flicks open his cigarette case, holding it out to Galen. 

“No, thanks,” Galen tells him, pen clenched between his teeth. “But you go ahead.”

Orson nods, and Galen hears the distant hiss of a lighter. His focus is all on the prints though, on the careful curve and arch of the ridges on the crime scene prints. He lowers his pen to paper, making slow notes. It’s hard to see exactly where the print branches and forks, even with his magnifying glass. The blood has obscured a few of them, the bottom of each print a mess of smudges and the pad standing brighter than the surrounding curves. He bites his lip, chewing on it slowly. 

Orson has finished his cigarette long before Galen manages to finish charting both sets of prints. He leans back in the hard-backed chair, looking over his work. He nods slowly, and Orson finally speaks up. 

“So?” he asks, leaning closer to look at Galen’s diagrams. 

“I would say with fairly high certainty that the same hand made these two sets of prints. Of course, we only have Padme Skywalker’s word that these are her husbands prints, but it’s enough to go to Tarkin and say that we believe he was at the scene before Rossi discovered the first body.”

“I wish I could say I am surprised,” Orson nods, sighing. “But I’m not. Too much righteousness isn’t good for the soul.”

Galen laughs, the sound punching out of him, shocked and loud in the small room. He stands up, gathering his notes in a pile, then carefully setting the glass back in its case and slipping the prints into their folder. 

“Let’s put these in lock-up, then go talk to Tarkin. And then we can have a conversation about how absurd you are.”

Orson smiles at him, eyes too soft in this harsh light. 

***

When Tarkin calls them into his office, he’s sitting bolt upright, sorting through his notes. Even his shoulders are pushed back, his hair in perfect order, swept away from his forehead. 

“Ah, our errant detective, here to tell me how crime runs rampant in my city while I hunt for traitors?” he scoffs as Galen comes in. 

Galen thins his lips. He’d thought, after their last conversation, that Tarkin was finally on board, was finally on his side. He clasps his hands behind his back, hiding the results of his analysis for now. 

“Captain,” he begins, “I would never ask you to divert from the Chief of Police’s instructions.”

Tarkin looks up, sighing. He collapses a little in his seat, back slumping and legs widening. He waves a hand slowly. 

“I know, Erso. I know. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you don’t get to see the big picture. You’d understand more if you did.”

Galen’s throat feels thick with the denial he pushes down. Somehow, he doubts that. But he simply nods. If Tarkin wants to believe Galen would understand if only he were shown the evidence, he will let Tarkin believe that. 

“I’ve collected more evidence in those North End cases,” he says instead. 

“Yes? Do you have any leads? I know Mr. Krennic is holding off the media for now, but it’s just a matter of time before someone other than the Post starts paying attention to the case.”

“I don’t think you’re going to take a shine to our prime suspect,” Galen tells him. 

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“It’s the junior board member of Watch and Ward,” Galen says flatly. 

“What!” Tarkin is on his feet in an instant. “Anakin Skywalker, you mean?” He paces around his desk to get closer to Galen. 

Galen stands his ground. Tarkin has never been intimidating enough to worry him, and there is a strange commonality he feels with the man, that of an outsider to the force, someone brought to fix problems but never given a chance to become one with the rest of the bulls out there. 

“Do you know him, sir?” he asks. 

“Yes. We’ve known each other since the war. He’s a good man. A little hotheaded, but he understands the realities of this world, and how harsh a line you sometimes have to take.” Tarkin’s brow furrows. “I trust you have evidence.”

“Fingerprints,” Galen says. 

“Are you sure?”

“A seven point match. We took them off a glass his wife gave us, and also from the first murder scene. It’s good enough to be considered definitive.” 

Tarkin sighs. He sinks down to lean on his desk, his uniform rumpling a little in the process. His lips thin, and he appears to be chewing it over. 

“I always knew that fervor of his would get him into trouble. There is such a thing as being so tied to your old religion that you forget about the rules of the society you live in.” Tarkin shakes his head. “And that wife of his has always been trouble. I shouldn’t be surprised that she gave you something like that.”

“Captain?” Galen asks. If he didn’t know better, he would think that Tarkin sounds genuinely regretful that Skywalker seems to be the culprit. 

“Excuse me,” Tarkin shakes his head. “I simply have enjoyed his company for a long time.”

“There is a chance that he didn’t actually commit the crimes,” Orson finally speaks up.

“Yes?”

“We’ve simply found evidence linking him to the crime scene, and proving he was there before the police arrived. That doesn’t actually mean he committed the murder. It’s circumstantial.” 

Galen raises an eyebrow. Orson shakes his head slightly, and Galen gives him the briefest nod. They’ll discuss it later. 

“For once, Krennic, I have to thank you. But I trust Detective Erso. Moreover, it makes a certain kind of grim sense.” Tarkin’s knuckles are white on the edge of his desk, but he seems to be resigned to things now. 

“Does it?” Orson asks. 

“Anakin has always been too quick to fight the individual, rather than the system. I don’t doubt he sees these girls as sinning, and has forgotten that Messina tempted them into sin.”

“Orson makes a good point,” Galen nods to him. “It is circumstantial. I don’t know if it would hold up in court.”

“It wouldn’t,” Tarkin says flatly. “Fingerprinting, Detective? It’s not even widely accepted in this country, no matter what our French colleagues have started doing.” 

Galen nods. He sets the file of diagrams on Tarkin’s desk anyway though, perching them next to where Tarkin leans. 

“So what would you like us to do?”

“I believe you. No jury would. You need more, Detective. More, and I don’t want it to come at the expense of another body. Do you understand me? I trust you to catch Anakin without more women dying on my turf.”

“Sir, it might help to have your expertise on this case. You are familiar with him, after all,” Galen keeps his voice soft, almost whispering out of his lips. 

“No,” Tarkin shakes his head. “I am far too close to him to be of any help to you. You… and Mr. Krennic… you’re on your own for this one.”

***

Orson is silent when the leave the precinct, walking beside Galen. After they had left Tarkin’s office, they had gone back to Galen’s desk, Galen trying to think over any way they can further the investigation without more evidence. He’d been pacing around, hands behind his back, when Orson had leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk. 

“Not right now,” he’d said. 

Galen had looked across at him, lips pursed. Orson had smiled softly, standing straighter. 

“Not right now, Galen,” he’d repeated. “Tonight, we go out, we don’t think about this case for one night. You’ve made a huge step forward with the fingerprints. Right now, you need to clear your head. I need to clear my head.”

Galen had nodded. They weren’t going to get anything done, not with the day they’d had. 

And now they’re headed further into the North End, but not to work on the case. Orson walks too close to him, his arm brushing Galen’s every so often. Galen turns to him once they’re out of earshot of the precinct. 

“I have to go change,” he says, hands petting over the curve of his uniform almost unconsciously. 

“We can stop by your rooms on the way,” Orson tells him. 

“Where are we going?” Galen asks. 

“A cafe I know in the North End. They’ll let us talk, probably just ignore us.”

“You do realize I’m a police officer, Orson?” Galen asks, but he laughs a little at the words. 

“I know. I also know that we need to talk.”

Galen bites his lip. Suddenly he can feel Orson fingers on him, a phantom touch as strong as the one in the alley earlier. He can hear Orson’s voice in his ear - _I always have_ \- the whisper of Orson’s breath across his cheek like a caress. He nods. They do need to talk. 

It’s not far to his room from the precinct, and he grits his teeth as he remembers the clothing scattered about his room, the disarray of his bed. But Orson says nothing as Galen leads him inside, and Galen tries not to point them out. Instead, he grabs a new shirt and trousers, tugging off his uniform. Orson blushes and turns around when Galen gets down to his small clothes, and Galen feels something stir deep in his belly. A heat that climbs up to wrap around his face and invade his cheeks. He can’t help the sigh he lets out when he pulls up his new trousers, tucking in his his shirt and carefully attaching his suspenders. 

He passes close to Orson when he goes to grab his jacket. Orson’s hands are fisted in the fabric of his own trousers, knuckles white. Galen wants to pries them away from the rough weave and take them in his own, pull Orson close and tell him that he is not alone. But instead he grabs his jacket, throwing it on and setting his hat on his head. 

“Ready?” Orson asks. “You look right spiffy, you know?” 

Galen laughs, the tension all flooding out of him as he holds his sides. When he finally catches his breath, he grins at Orson. 

“Only you would think so,” he manages to get out between giggles. 

“I dunno,” Orson smiles at him. “Might have to hold off all the gold-diggers tonight.”

“I don’t think I have pockets deep enough for that,” Galen tells him. “Anyway, I don’t swing that way. You know that.”

“Heard you do sometimes,” Orson says as they make their way out of the building and back onto the street.

“Sometimes. Not… not for a long time,” Galen sobers up quickly, glancing at Orson. “I tried, you know. Couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t?”

“Yes, couldn’t. I told her… I told her it was sin since we weren’t married. She told me she wasn’t some dumb Dora, she knew perfectly well what was going on. I haven’t tried since.” 

Orson’s hand finds his arm, giving it a quick squeeze. When Galen looks at him, his eyes are wide. 

“I’m sorry. I know… I know you wanted that.”

“What? Father Sloane marrying me to some pretty girl with the stained glass behind us and the Mother Superior looking on?”

Orson nods. 

“I think I did, once. Before the war, maybe, but before the war I had something better.”

“Galen…”

Galen looks away. He can’t… not yet. He can’t tell Orson how much he misses that little flat they had together, how he misses the look of Orson’s face in the morning, creased from sleep, his eyelashes long and clumped, his head thrown back as he breathes smoke out into the cold air. He can’t say how he’d thought about it every single night on the front, imagined Orson was there with him, wrapped tight in his blankets, then thanked God that Orson was safe and sound at home. 

Except Orson wasn’t safe. Instead, Orson was in hell, just as Galen was, and Galen had never known. 

He’s shaken from his morose thoughts when Orson pushes open a blank door in the side of a brick wall. Inside, a single bulb lights up the steps going downwards. 

“Is this a speakeasy?” he whispers into Orson’s ear. Orson just grins at him, knocking three times on a door at the end of the stairs. 

It opens up, leading them into a dimly lit room, full of milling patrons. There are a few flappers there, with bright feathers in their hair and beautiful evening dresses. More of the room is dapper men, all dressed to the nines. There is something seedy about it, though, something fake about the pearls around most of the women’s necks, and threadbare about the men’s jackets. They clump in corners, a few of them pulling serving girls onto their laps. Orson takes his hand. 

Galen gasps, low and almost inaudible. Orson’s fingers feel so good in his, even through the leather of their gloves. He leads Galen deeper into the room, towards the back end of the room. They pass through a thin curtain of beads. Inside, there are only men. A few are dressed in what seems to be the uniform of the place, all young and thin, velvet waistcoats cinched tightly around narrow waists. More of them are patrons, clustered together in twos and threes. 

Orson pulls him over to a booth in one corner, dark and a little secluded. Orson leads him to one side, his grip tight on Galen’s hand. Then he settles down on the cushion. Galen sinks down beside him. Before he has a chance to ask what in the world they’ve walked into, a server comes up. 

“Welcome back, Mr. K. Your usual?” his voice is light, melodious, and Galen takes a moment to admire his high cheekbones and the shock of sandy hair that falls across his forehead. 

“Thanks, Max. And one for my friend here,” Orson tells him. When Max walks off, he turns to Galen. “It’s not a speakeasy. Or not exactly.”

“It’s a brothel,” Galen says flatly. 

“Well… That’s a harsh word, don’t you think? I prefer to think of it as a friendly place to conduct a romantic assignation.”

“Orson…” Galen sighs. 

“Look, Galen, I’m sorry about earlier… I shouldn’t have said all that to you, especially not in the middle of a case. I brought you here to make up.”

“What, to buy me a pretty boy and watch me to go home with him?” Galen scoffs. 

“Just to talk, Galen,” there’s real hurt in Orson’s eyes, in the high pitch of his voice. He slides a little away from Galen in the booth.

Before Galen can say anything else, though, Max is back. He sets two lowball glasses in front of them, both full of an amber liquid. Orson nods to him, and Max wanders off, but not before giving Orson a look from beneath lowered eyelids. Galen’s throat tightens, and he can’t stop himself from glaring after Max for a few moments. 

“Try it,” Orson pushes a glass towards him. 

“Whiskey?” Galen asks. 

“And a few other things.”

He takes a sip, feeling the warmth slip down his throat and pool in his stomach. For a few moments, he lets the taste roll about his mouth, enjoying the burn. Then he turns back to Orson. 

“So talk,” he says. 

“Galen, I… I didn’t expect to ever see you again. I wanted to. I hoped for you every day. But I thought you’d disappeared for good and I gave up wishing. I wasn’t lying earlier, though. I thought about you every single day. When… in the war, when I was in that burning laboratory, listening to men scream as they choked and died from a gas experiment gone wrong, the only thing I could think about was that if I died too, I would never have gotten to see your face again. When I knelt in the chaplain’s services that night, I thought about how you might have been with them if you’d joined our science team, and I was grateful you were on the front. When I woke screaming from the nightmares, I was happy that you didn’t have to suffer them with me.”

Galen takes a long sip of his whiskey. His eyes prickle at Orson’s words. Orson’s lips are thin and blanched, the color rising higher on his cheeks the longer he talks. 

“I just wanted you to be alright, to survive and to be spared the horrors I’d seen. But when I came back… I want more now, Galen. I’m so sorry, I want more. I want to touch you, to hold you. I just want you back.”

Orson’s face is flushed, his voice stuttering. He leans forwards and Galen can almost taste the desperation that’s leaking out of his pores. Before he can stop himself, he takes one ungloved hand and runs it down the side of Orson’s face. Orson presses into it, whimpering a little, the sound low and strained. Galen shivers, pulling his hand back. 

“Orson,” he starts. 

“I know. You’ve moved on. It’s wrong anyway. I shouldn’t… I’m not supposed to need you like this.”

“Maybe not,” Galen agrees. He takes a deep breath, as though about to dive so deep that he will never be able to swim his way to the air. He’s drowning, but he’s not sure if he ever was free of the water to begin with. 

“Maybe not,” he says again. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t want me. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want you too. Orson, there’s so little for me out there. I have no friends, not since the police strike. I have nothing beside my work and my memories. And the memories? They’re all of you. When I wake up, I still reach out for you, and find nothing but an empty bed. When I go to sleep, I try to dream of you, to blot out the sound of shells exploding in my mind with your face, and your voice, and your touch. It’s all I have left. Maybe it’s all I’ve ever had. And maybe it’s a sin. I don’t know about that. I don’t think even Father Sloane could answer that one. But it’s how we’re made, and I refuse to believe that God made us wrong.”

“You do?” Orson asks in a whisper. 

“God does not make mistakes. He is perfect and eternal and omnipotent. And he is love. I cannot, I will not believe that he would have given us this much love and not meant us to use it. I cannot believe he would let me fall in love with you without it being the right thing to do.”

Galen bites his lip, trying to stop himself from talking any more. He’s already let more slip than he intended, and now he stands on the edge of a knife, the tipping point. He has spilled his soul out on the tabletop for Orson to pick through, and all he can hope for is that Orson will gather up the broken pieces and put them back together. 

“You love me?” Orson breathes. 

“Yes,” Galen says. He cannot hold back any longer. 

“I’m broken, Galen. I wake up screaming at night, the faces of the dead haunting me. I snap at the slightest little thing. I’m a failure, stuck at crime editor when everyone thought I’d be editor in chief in five years.”

“I don’t care,” Galen lets his hand cup Orson’s cheek again. “I’ve never cared, Orson. Broken or not, we’re meant for each other. You’re the other half of my shattered soul, and maybe both halves are cracked but that just makes them fit together more perfectly.”

Orson’s skin is so soft against his hand, stubble barely prickling his palm. When he turns his face slightly, Galen lets his hand slip around as well, and soon he feels Orson’s lips against the flat of his palm. They press to it, just a quick kiss, and then they pull away. 

“Is that… you’re serious?” Orson asks again. 

“You’ve found me again, and I’ve found you. We’re not going to be parted. Not again.” Galen leans forwards, and now he can feel Orson’s ragged breath against his skin. It’s hot, washing across him in a desperate tatu. He takes a deep breath. 

When he finally presses his lips to Orson’s, Orson shakes under them. Galen lets his hands slide down to Orson’s waist, pulling him closer. The rest of the brothel drops away, and all he can smell is Orson, all he can feel is Orson. 

His mouth is a little thinner than Galen remembers, his lips chapped. When Galen licks across the seam, he tastes whiskey. Then Orson parts his lips, and Galen can’t think of taste any longer, nor anything but need. He pulls Orson closer, hands squeezing on Orson’s waist, gathering Orson into his arms. Orson moans low in his throat, and Galen feels his whole body throb in response. 

He traces his fingers up and down Orson’s sides inside his jacket, pressing slightly into the spaces between his ribs, and then down over his soft waist, digging his fingers in and kissing Orson harder. Orson moans against him, the sound low in his throat, and Galen feels it echo through him. He bites Orson’s lip, tugging it between his teeth. 

Orson’s hands are in his hair. They pull the strands that have come loose from their set, and Galen whimpers. His whole body is on fire, every touch of Orson’s fingers is like the only balm in the world that will soothe him. Galen slips a hand around to cup Orson’s ass, trying to pull him closer, trying to gather him up so tight that they melt together, one at last. 

Galen realizes Orson has started whispering just after he sinks his teeth into Orson’s neck right at his collar line. It’s soft, almost too quiet, but as Galen sucks at the skin there, he can hear what Orson’s saying. 

“Mine…” Orson mutters. “You’re all mine. Never gonna let you go again, Galen. Never. Please, I can’t… Please don’t leave me again. Please”

Galen pulls away, looking in Orson’s eyes. They shine in the lights of the cafe, bright and slick looking. The shimmer matches the slick on Orson’s lips where Galen has kissed them raw. He thumbs across them. 

“I won’t,” he whispers back. Then, louder, “I won’t leave you, Orson. Never again.”


	4. Epilogue

Galen wakes slowly the next morning. He yawns, stretching out his arms as he does every morning. Only this morning, his hand meets something, the slow rise and fall of a chest that isn’t his. His eyes snap open. 

Orson is spread out next to him, the sheet bunched up around his waist, and his chest bare. As Galen watches, it rises slowly, the rhythm of sleep undisturbed by the hand Galen now has pressed against his ribs. Like this, the lines around Orson’s eyes have smoothed themselves away. The shadows underneath them remain, though, and Galen rolls over a little to get closer. Then he shifts his hand up Orson’s body, running his fingers across the soft curve of his pecs and then to his cheek. Orson sleeps on. 

Galen caresses a single finger across those dark spots beneath his eyes, as though, with one touch, he can smooth them away, can erase the nightmares and the pain and the years that separated them. He pulls his hand away when Orson’s breathing hitches, but Orson does not wake. Galen sighs. 

The light filtering in through the high windows in Orson’s room is thin, just the first few rays of the sun after dawn. It highlights the curves and dips of Orson’s body, the bruise low on his chest, just above his hip, where Galen pressed his fingers in a little too hard last night. Galen pets it, feeling the differences in their bodies. He is harder, broad chested, with muscle built up during the war and maintained during his years on the force. Orson is different. Galen’s hand runs up over the little slope of his belly, the softness around his hips. His fingers find the slight curve of Orson’s pecs, cupping them, then caressing his nipples as they perk up. Orson is soft and warm, and just right to gather into Galen’s arms and hold close, a comforting weight. Galen wants to press his face against Orson’s belly, kiss every inch of him that betrays the fact he was never a soldier. 

Orson’s eyes flutter open then. At first his face is slack, sleep creased. But then his eyes light on Galen’s roving hand, on Galen lying next to him. He smiles, and it’s like the sun has burst over the horizon. The entire room lights with that smile, bathing Galen in the warmth of pure happiness. 

“Good morning,” Galen whispers, his voice rough with sleep and last night’s exertions. 

“I was worried I’d dreamed it,” Orson murmurs. 

“What?” Galen asks.

“You, here, in my bed. You, with me. I was afraid if I opened my eyes, it wouldn’t be real. It’s happened before.”

The creases are forming around Orson’s eyes again, deep and heavy, pressing into his skin. Galen frowns. Then he slides across the bed, pressing himself to Orson’s side. He lets his arm drape across Orson’s waist, hand flat on his chest, just above his heart. The slow beats thud against Galen’s palm, resounding through him. 

“It’s real.” He kisses the corner of Orson’s shoulder, lips soft. “I’m real. I swear to you, Orson, I swear. I’m real, and I’m yours.” 

Orson nods slowly. He rolls towards Galen, and for a moment Galen mourns the loss of his hand on Orson’s chest. It slips over to Orson’s back, and suddenly Orson is cradled in his arms, so close that Galen can see the flecks of color in his blue eyes, the way that his lips are a little chapped at the corners. It takes his breath away, his chest going tight with impossible warmth. 

Orson’s hand comes up to cup Galen’s cheek, his fingers stroking over the high arch of Galen’s cheekbone and then finding purchase in the hollow just below his ear. He holds Galen there, his eyes pressing into him, searching for some sign that Galen does not know how to give. Whatever it is, Orson finds it. His lips press against Galen’s, quick and warm with sleep. 

“I didn’t actually mean for us to end up here,” he says as he pulls away. 

Galen stiffens. His entire body goes rigid at the words, but Orson hurries to continue. 

“I don’t mean that I don’t want this. I just didn’t want to rush you. I… I want you back so badly that I can’t breathe with it. But I don’t want to do anything to put your life in jeopardy. You’re respected in the community, a bastion, a detective. I don’t want to ruin that by someone finding out about us.”

Galen sighs. He kisses Orson again, just as quickly as Orson’s kiss was. Then he presses their bodies together, his leg working its way in between Orson’s to pin him close. 

“Orson…” he starts. He catches Orson’s eyes before he continues. “Orson, I love you. I love you more than the stars and the sun and the bright earth that God has given us. You make me happier than anything I’ve ever dreamed up. When… when I didn’t have you, it was as thought a veil had been drawn across the sun. As though the entire world had grown darker. I was serious about what I said last night. I want everything about you, want to do everything with you, no matter the consequences.”

Orson smiles at him, a watery smile that makes the corners of his eyes curve up just enough to seem real. Galen gathers him up in his arms, rolling onto his back and pulling Orson to straddle him. Orson settles himself across Galen’s thighs, his legs spread wide and his hands pressed to Galen’s chest. 

“So where do we go from here?” Galen asks. 

“Where do you want to go?”

Galen runs his fingers across Orson’s chest, pinching lightly at his nipples. They are soft pink under his fingertips, and a bite mark hovers above one of them, the dark bruise a reminder of the night before. He wonders what it would be like to see Orson’s skin marked up with his kisses, forever a tapestry of his affections. His nails dig a little deeper into Orson’s skin, and Orson whines. Galen takes a deep breath, drinking down his moan. 

“I want you. I want us to be together. Not just for the rest of this case. I want to wake up next you for the rest of my life. It doesn’t matter what anyone says, doesn’t matter if we’re forever the old bachelors next door. Something inside me is saying that if we don’t take this chance, we’ll regret it until the day we die.”

Orson presses his hips into Galen’s. The roll of them is not enough to really distract Galen from his thoughts, just enough to give him comfort, to remind him that Orson is real, that the weight of him on Galen’s lap is not a dream-phantom. 

“I think I would regret it even after that,” Orson whispers. 

“To the ends of this earth, and beyond, in the shadow of the stars and the angels that never die.”

“It won’t be easy,” Orson reminds him. 

“Nothing that is worth our dreams is ever easy.”

“You are worth more than dreams to me, Galen,” Orson leans down, settling himself against Galen’s chest and tangling their legs together. “You are worth the very breath of the heavens themselves. If I could, I would give you the endless night, the flaring stars, the music that echoes just out of hearing when one dreams. If I could, I would remake the world for you and take away every pain that you have ever felt.”

“I would rather face the pain with you than let it fall away,” Galen tells him. 

“Then we will face it together. In sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer,” Orson says. 

Galen gasps, kissing Orson on the lips hard. He never thought he would hear those words from someone he loves. 

“For better and for worse, till death do us apart.”

**Author's Note:**

> \+ All slang is period accurate, as are referenced historical events. The members of the French Foreign Legion mentioned by name did in fact serve in WWI, and the police strike in Boston occurred in 1919. 
> 
> \+ If anyone wants to learn an inordinate amount the Watch and Ward Society, which was the originator of the term "banned in Boston," hmu. I can set you on the path to bizarre, useless knowledge.
> 
> \+ Incidentally, descriptions of "cafes" (a euphemism for brothel in Boston used after the late 1800s to skirt WaW oversight) are as accurate as possible. Attitudes towards queerness (a period term) are as accurate as possible, given the fact that research in the period that does not concern members of the intelligentsia or upper-class people is somewhat spotty. 
> 
> \+ I want to make another plug for [mrsjadecurtiss](http://mrsjadecurtiss.tumblr.com/), who is right ducky, a sweet bird, and so much fun to work with. Thank you for getting me off my butt and getting me to write my first piece of historical fiction ever. 
> 
> \+ Find me on tumblr a [saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


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